I Cannot Remember My Own Sanity

I hate myself, I cannot control myself. I like alcohol. I like to smoke. I like women. I can't help it. I'm a monster. I'm just a liar when I keep myself out of trouble, when I tell you “I ran 6 kms today, I drank water, I avoid junk food on a daily basis”. 

When I drink alcohol, I become a monster, and I forget everything, and I say silly things, and I insult people, and I become an animal. You should keep out of my way. 

I cannot stop thinking about this song of The Vines, and flashbacks of the last Thursday appear out of nowhere, and I'm paranoid. I try to focus on my own thoughts, but I feel someone's spying on me. I also feel nauseating and dumb, and I think of Jack Kerouac and the guy I was before I met my wife, and I feel guilty –I'm just an animal–, and another flashbacks appear and I barely remember what I wanted to do when I was totally drunk, and all that I could have done if my wife hadn't been there to take care of me. 

I'm a monster. Never invite me to drink wine.

It Is The Real Thing

I thought we were friends, and now I see that it was more a fantasy than a real thing. I met you a decade ago, or so, and we kept in touch for so many years on Facebook –I don't even remember when was the last time I saw you, but it was probably around 2008, when I got married and invited you to my wedding–, and a few months ago I even tried to make a deal with you –a podcast–, but you said that you were pretty busy –at that time I worked on awful conditions, teaching classes from 1 pm to 6 pm on a daily basis, among other duties– and I just found it arrogant. 

You have changed, you are so radical now. You act like all men are idiots. You confirmed the stereotype I have about writers: they act like if their readers –the rest of the world– are the dumbest humans on Earth. The writers I talk about don't care about nothing but themselves. 

So disappointing.

they keep calling me

i'm drunk. i would like to say that i don't think about you, but i do. i remember your voice, your face, your blonde hair, your hands, your opinions in class. 

instagram has told me that you are still alive. instagram has reminded me of you. and now i am listening to nine inch nails, an old album, and this song makes me feel like i am 25 yrs old.